I tied my shoes this morning—
double knot, like they taught me—
tight, controlled,
predictable.
But halfway through the day
they came undone anyway.
Not dramatic.
No speech.
No sirens.
Just a quiet unraveling
against pavement.
And I stood there—
one lace dragging like a question—
thinking how strange it is
that the smallest failures
trip us hardest.
So I didn’t retie them.
No kneel.
No fix.
No quiet compliance.
I walked.
Let them slap the concrete,
whisper against the ground,
announce each step
like a soft rebellion.
People noticed—
or maybe they didn’t—
but I felt it:
Every loose thread
a refusal.
Every step
a protest against the idea
that everything
must always be held together
just because
someone showed you how.
By the time I got home,
they were filthy, frayed,
nearly undone completely.
And I thought—
good.
Let them be.
Not everything broken
needs to be fixed.
Some things
just need to be seen.
It’s my life 
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